Pain
by DarkeDragonBoss
Summary: He was alone for days, waiting out his days, until she came into his life. Yolo? Who knows. A random story I ended up writing. Short, subject to change, and just a placeholder. Summary also subject to severe change.


**A/N: Well, its the first story. Just the beginning of a thought I had. It'll definitely get longer, and hopefully better. Pop a review if you care. Cheers!**

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He stared hard at the surface, willing it to disappear before his eyes. It had happened before – it could happen again. He waited, anxiously, for something to happen, something to relieve the monotony of his everyday life; although, to be fair, his life couldn't really be called normal. The vertical lines, the horizontal lines, were all that filled his life nowadays. Even so, he couldn't bring himself to blame others, the outside, Dumbledore, anyone. He brought this upon himself. He knew exactly what he was doing when he lifted the tome, bringing it towards his face, gazing upon its mysteries, opening the hallowed tome and peering into its depths at its forbidden knowledge in a final effort to gain an advantage to overcome the evil that had plagued that world and brought despair – he forcibly broke that train of thought. Too many painful memories. Too many bridges burnt. Too much lost.

He turned his head to the wall, not even flinching anymore at the mold on the wall. The stink no longer bothered him – courtesy to his lengthy stay at his current abode. There was little left to him to amuse himself these days, save for counting the drops of water that slipped through the cracks in the roof, falling in a drip, drip, drip sound on the hard, cold floor. Cold. Clammy. It doesn't matter.

He couldn't remember the last time he had seen anyone. Perhaps they still thought of him? There was little chance, but it was all there was to tide him through the endless days and nights and everything in between. Time passed slowly in his cell, too slowly – although, it's not like he could tell, what with the uniform grey walls and bars and ceiling and floor and uniform. Nothing. Emptiness. There was simply nothing to feel anymore, not with his duty done.

He heard a loud groaning, yet paid it no mind. It was probably just the Crow, or the Bull, or the Stork. Everything had lost focus nowadays, and everything had, simultaneously, become clearer. He could see everything and nothing, feel everything and nothing, know everything and nothing. All his schooling, all of his teachings, nothing could prepare him for the horrors he faced in the final days. Or did he face it? He couldn't remember. In all honestly, he thought to himself, it probably didn't matter. Nothing really mattered in here, just as nothing had really mattered outside the halls.

He heard footsteps, far away, yet still inside the premises. Interesting – he couldn't for the life of him understand why anyone would enter in this hellhole. He turned his head to his bars, only a slight bit, just enough that anyone would be visible through the corner of his eyes. The footsteps got louder, more urgent. Someone was in a rush to meet him, and possibly leave as quickly as they could. Not an unwise decision, he decided, amused. It's not like his wardens were known for their hospitality. No – he chastised himself. He hadn't had contact with another human being in years, and the sounds of the other members of this humble institution didn't count. Nothing counted inside those walls, nothing except the belief that you were innocent – something that a man he once respected once had, yet he could not lay claim to. Not anymore. Not after his Event. He was roused from his thoughts by a faint cough, followed by a halting of footsteps outside his cell. The figure wore a brown, tattered cloak, white particles emanating in a halo around it. The face was cast in shadow, although from what he could glean from the contours of the body, it appeared to be a woman. He racked his memory to think of even one woman he had contact with on the outside that would be willing to visit, yet no names came to mind. Well, none that were still outside, that was. The figure coughed again, and spoke in a hoarse, crackly voice.

"Sup, mah bruh," she said. He immediately snapped his focus to the woman in disbelief. He wouldn't dare hope, but he couldn't stop himself from bringing to mind the endless summers, the days around the lake, feeding the Squid, being fed, beds, hospitals, stairs, chairs and tables and professors and prophecies and friends and enemies and darkness and light and birds and not-birds, people and not-people and everything in between that could possibly matter, matter to him, because that was the only thing that had ever mattered, ever since the beginning, the origins, the very first days, when he was but a naïve little child and she – nothing. Nothing would ever be.

He opened his mouth to reply, but found that, despite his best efforts, he couldn't. Not anymore. He strained, vibrated, pulled at his cords, yet they had fully degenerated from disuse, leaving only small strands in place. Ashamed, he closed his mouth, and turned his body to fully face the woman. As he came closer to the bars, he could only wonder – a strange feeling, one that he had not the fortune to experience in a very, very long time. Could it be? Was it really? Will it? As he approached, her features came into alarming focus.

Long, red hair, falling neatly behind her back in a ponytail. Full, red cheeks, with an adorable nose – or rather, where there _was_ a nose, before everything happened. Piercing blue eyes, framed by a pair of rectangular, slightly crooked glasses. High cheekbones, a prominent forehead, a small, pouty mouth; he knew this face very well, better than he knew his own. How could he not, when she had access to his soul in ways that no one ever had before, and perhaps never would every again. He mouthed her name, silently, longingly, yet she made no motion of recognition. She lifted her hand, her long, pale fingers rising up towards his face now pressed against the bars. Slowly, tantalizingly, she stroked his black eyebrows, his full nose, his sunken cheeks, moving past his almond-shaped eyes to rest on the mark upon his forehead, the source of all his problems. She whispered his name in turn, slowly, meaningfully.

"Harry."


End file.
